


if the sky comes falling down

by synchronicities



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: (sorta) - Freeform, Adopted Sibling Relationship, Amnesia, Being Physically Confronted By Your Childhood And Your Abused Sister As You Do, Family Dynamics, Post-Season/Series 01, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 11:52:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18010442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synchronicities/pseuds/synchronicities
Summary: The equations are still wrong.In 2002, Number Seven wonders why her siblings are acting odd.(Or, the post-finale “Vanya doesn’t remember the time travel” fic)





	if the sky comes falling down

**Author's Note:**

> This is absolutely not the way canon is going to go but I needed some Vanya Loving Hours up in here. The team accidentally time travels back to 2002 when the kids are 13ish following the finale, so this is pre-Five’s disappearance, pre-Ben’s death, and pre-PEAK DYSFUNCTION in general. Don't think about why Vanya doesn't remember (she was unconscious, she literally caused the apocalypse, etc) or how Ben's soul took over his living 13-year-old body, just //waves hand
> 
> Title from that Avicii song about siblings that everyone knows. You know the one.

Today everybody else seems nervous at the dinner table. Number Seven has learned to keep her head down at mealtimes; Dad hates it when they talk at the table and it’s much easier to be seen and not heard, especially when her siblings are at their rowdiest. But Number Seven has spent hours cataloging her siblings’ training results, powers, and body language both for their father and for herself, and sometimes imagines that she knows them much better than they think. She notices the furrow in Number One’s brow, that Number Three’s shoulders are very stiff, that Number Six keeps glancing between the seven of them, that Number Four is tapping his foot against the floor the way he does when he’s antsy.

Mom doesn’t seem to notice and Dad doesn’t appear to mind, content to sip his tea and write away in his journal. A quick glance at Pogo makes Number Seven think that he’s picked up on it but knows better than to say anything, and so dinner proceeds as it normally does, with only the clinks and clangs of cutlery and glass in the air.

After they’ve helped Mom put the dishes in the washer, Number Three catches her with a quick “Hey”.

Number Seven blinks curiously at her. “Is everything all right, Number Three? Do you need something?”

Her sister looks stricken at that, which dismays Number Seven, but then Number Three smiles at her. It’s still a little forced, but better than her looking worried. “I just thought we could walk upstairs together,” she says, sounding a little unsure. Number Seven notices that Number One and Number Five are waiting by the foot of the staircase, too.

Number Seven considers this. Normally after dinner her siblings bound up the stairs in a race to the top while she trails behind, taking note of their advantages and disadvantages. But Number Three is still looking at her expectantly, and so Number Seven lets herself nod. Number Three glances at Number One and Number Five; their brothers look a little relieved and head upstairs themselves.

Odd.

Number Three links her arm with Number Seven’s the whole climb upstairs. When they turn into the hallway that leads to their bedrooms, Number Three rocks on her feet, and then gives Number Seven a hug. Number Seven stiffens, but her sister doesn’t let go, and so she lets herself relax into it, even bringing her own arms around Number Three.

“Good night, Number Seven,” Number Three says before opening the door to her room, a pretty grin on her face.

There’s an odd feeling that’s bloomed in Number Seven’s chest and she carries it all the way to her own bedroom, fighting a smile as she sits down on the bed.

* * *

The next day Dad sends her to assist Number Two with his training. Her brother has been getting better with the knives, prefers them over the spears and throwing stars Dad had tested previously, and so he needs someone to track his statistics while he practices since he’s too impatient to do it himself. The two of them stand in one of the gardens thirty feet or so from several dartboards, and Number Seven dutifully takes down his scores as he throws his knives.

The other day he had been more hesitant with them, but he’s much improved today. He hits all the bullseyes with ease, even on the targets that require him to curve the knives, and he smirks when she tells him so.

“Were you practicing by yourself, Number Two?” she asks him, showing him the tables. “Look, on Sunday you had an average score that was half this.”

He hesitates. “I suppose you could say that,” he says. “Not so hard once you get the hang of it.”

She smiles, proud. “I’m sure it would be. Good job.”

Number Two nods. “Thank you for your help.”

She cocks her head at him. They stopped thanking her some time ago, having gotten accustomed to her presence whenever she helps them practice, but she still ducks her head and says that he’s very welcome.

He looks away. “Hey, Number Seven,” he starts, and she braces herself for the dismissals or taunts that have been coming more easily from him lately. Instead, there’s an oddly heavy pause where he fiddles with the throwing knife in his hand. “Take care, okay?” he finally says.

Number Seven frowns at him in confusion. “I’ll be fine,” she says. “I’m right here. You should be the one taking care.”

Something about that makes him grin. “Yeah, you will be.”

He slings his arm around her shoulder as they walk back to the mansion, and Number Seven tries not to question it too much.

* * *

On Wednesday the Academy has a mission. It should have been a straightforward one – there’s a madman trying to steal the blueprints for a superweapon from one of the laboratories in the city – and so her siblings head to the building all exuding confidence and poise while Number Seven waits in the car with Dad. On missions he doesn’t bother with small talk either, and so she studies the stitching on the car’s upholstery. When she gets bored of that she watches the building for any special signs of activity.

The mission appears to have gone as planned for the most part, but as the others traipse back to the car she sees that Number One is carrying Number Four, and there’s a patch of blood on his torso. Alarmed, she jumps out with the first aid kit. “What happened?”

“A henchman we didn’t see rounded the lookout point,” Number One says by way of explanation, laying him down on the floor.

“Number Three rumored him so he doesn’t think the pain is very bad, but it needs to be treated soon,” Number Six adds, his voice worried. He talks some more, but Number Seven’s already pulled out the wound wash and the gauze.

“Oh, sister, my sister,” Number Four moans while she performs quick first-aid. It’s not perfect, but it’ll hold for the ride home, and then Pogo and Mom can take better care of him. Dad _tsks_ , like Number Four deliberately set himself up to be injured, and it rankles her, but she knows better than to speak up. Her siblings pile into the car, Number Six taking care to put pressure on the wound.

Later, Number Four stumbles out of the mansion’s makeshift operating room and into the kitchen as Mom sets aside Number Seven’s medication. She smiles at both of them. “I’m glad you’re up and about now, Number Four,” she says, walking over to hug him. “Good night; I’ll see you both tomorrow.”

“Eh, can’t get rid of me too easily. Good night, Mom.” He takes a glass from one of the cupboards, fills it with water, guzzles it down, and turns to her.

“I never asked you about those,” he says suddenly. Number Seven realizes she’s been staring at him, and still hasn’t taken her medicine.

“Oh,” she says. “What about them?”

He looks at her, considering. It’s something she’s noticed her other siblings doing as well, as if she’s something they’re studying, and it alarms some primal instinct in her that she doesn’t know how to describe. “It’s just–” her brother starts. “Do they – do they help?”

“They’re for my anxiety,” Number Seven replies, a little irritated. He should _know_ this; she doesn’t need it pointed out.

“No, it’s just–” Number Four falters, uncharacteristically serious. “Sorry. I don’t know what I was trying to say about the drugs, or–” She rolls her eyes and swallows the pills; he watches her intently. “Number Seven,” he says again. “I just feel like we’ll have a lot to talk about soon.”

She frowns. "Is your wound giving you problems?"

"No, no." Number Four looks contemplative. "Thank you for patching me up earlier, by the way. I feel like...I feel like we don't do that enough, do we?"

Number Seven inhales, not understanding. She wonders if Number Four is still a little delirious, or...

“Is it a problem with your powers?” He's a good fighter, but he hasn’t been progressing as well with the spirit channeling as Dad would like. She doesn’t know how she could help him with that, though. 

Number Four ducks his head and smiles like he knows something she doesn't. “Something like that. Trying to get a handle on new abilities is always hard, you know.” He eyes her again, flashes her another quick smile, and inclines his head towards the staircase, dismissing her rising concern with a wave of his hand. “C’mon, sis, let’s go back upstairs.”

* * *

If her other siblings have been noticing her more, Number One is skittish around her. It’s never happened before; he’s always been on track to be the confident leader Dad expects of him, and he treats her as an extension of that. Number Seven doesn’t even think he knows that she can tell, but she’s spent so long reading her siblings that it’s glaringly obvious when he flinches after she’s Dad tells her to time his hundred-meter sprints.

He does well; his times are faster and his strides are more confident. She’s noticing that about all of them, how their abilities seem to have improved in leaps and bounds over the last week, seemingly without any impetus from Dad, Pogo, or herself.

“Did I do something wrong, Number One?” she asks him afterwards.

He’s tellingly silent, and Number Seven shrinks into herself. It’s always something with her, if not to do with her sheer mundanity it’s always some mistake she can’t help, and –

“No,” Number One says, shaking his head. “No, Number Seven, I’m sorry. You couldn’t have…”

“Then is it something I can help with?”

To her horror Number One’s face crumples briefly, and he shakes his head again before it clears. “Nope.” He pauses. “It’s…I’m going to start looking out for you, too, okay?”

This admission shocks her, and whatever she was going to say dies in her mouth as she blinks up at him. Number One keeps talking. “I just feel like…we haven’t been doing right by you, Number Seven. I want to change that, now.”

Tears prick at the corners of her eyes, and she blinks to clear them away. “Why?”

“It’ll make sense soon, I hope.” Her brother hesitates, before ruffling her hair. “I’m sorry, Number Seven. I love you.”

Back at the house, Dad asks why she’s been crying. Number One replies in an impressively neutral tone that he’d protected her from a rabid raccoon, and he doesn’t meet her eye when she’s told to go to her room.

* * *

Even Number Six is different.

In public he is still sullen and reluctant, but in private it’s like a switch has been flipped – he’s brighter, more open with his smiles. Still, it’s not something she can fault him for, and he’s always been the kindest to her, so Number Seven doesn’t even find it strange when he stops by her room on Friday afternoon and compliments her on her violin playing. “You’ve gotten really good,” he says, leaning against the doorway. She thinks his expression is a little proud.

“Thank you,” she says, awkward. Accepting compliments has never come easy to her. And because it’s Number Six, who’s always been comforting, she hazards to add, “You look happier. In general.”

He raises his eyebrows, but the smile that appears on his face is teasing. “Really,” he muses. “I do feel like I’ve gotten a new lease on life.”

“That’s good, I think,” she says, putting her violin down. Despite herself, she smiles. “I hope your new lease doesn’t expire soon.”

Number Six chuckles. “Yeah, me too.” He raises a hand to wave at her. “See you later, Number Seven.”

“Something’s odd with the others, Mom,” she tells their mother later, when she comes to tuck Number Seven in. “They’ve been – talking with each other, I think it’s about me. And they’ve been treating me different, too. Talking to me, being nice…” Even as she says this, the description feels inadequate. How is she to tell Mom how  _nice_ it feels to be smiled at across the dining table, to be patted affectionately, to be asked opinions, to be treated like they would each other -  _like family_ , her brain supplies, and the thought still makes her heart beat a little faster. She recalls the feeling of Number Three's arms around her, and sinks further into the covers.

Mom looks at her, glassy eyes wide, before her face breaks into a soft, lovely smile. Sometimes, Number Seven doesn’t know if these feelings are real, either. “My darling,” Mom says, planting a soft kiss on her forehead. “Is it so hard to believe that they love you?”

* * *

On Saturdays before lunch Number Seven usually goes to the library, since the others’ half hour of free time usually means they have full command of the house and she doesn’t want to get in their way. Today, however, Number Five blips into existence next to her table.

She stares at him. Number Five hasn't seeked her out in a while, but he sits across from her as if he always does. He looks like he’s weighing his words when he says, “You’re reading again?”

Number Seven nods and closes the book. _I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings_ , Maya Angelou. Mom had recommended it after Seven had admitted to liking _Moments of Being_. “I’ve been partial to autobiographies lately,” she says to him. “It’s interesting to see how people portray their surroundings years afterward.”

“Is that so?” Number Five says, glancing at the book then at her. His mouth is downturned, and the library is quiet when it would normally be filled with his chatter or sarcasm. She can’t read his expression and it discomfits her. “I didn’t really know you liked literature.”

There’s a lot that Number Seven’s brothers and sister don’t know about her, really. They don’t know that there’s a hole in her favorite pair of socks because she wears them so often, that she’s starting to learn pieces from the Romantic composers and is halfway through _Zigeunerweisen_ , or that the new medicine Dad and Mom got for her make her throw up sometimes. But for one brief, wild moment, she lets herself hope that Number Five is willing to listen for some of it.

Instead she nods at him and reopens the book. _There is no greater agony than having an untold story inside you_ , she reads.

She hears one of Number Five’s portals opening and thinks he’s left, but then she hears it again, and he appears in her field of vision holding a book from one of the shelves. He sits down again and opens it without another word, apparently having decided to spend his free time reading with her. She bites down a smile and turns the page.

“You know, Number Seven,” her brother says after some time, his voice echoing in the otherwise empty library. She looks up at him. He sounds terribly serious and looks rather sad; she doesn’t know what to make of their short conversation. “I don’t think I really mind that you’re ordinary at all.”

* * *

On Sunday morning Number Seven is awakened by quick, hard knocks on her bedroom door. Confused – it’s still dark out, a good half an hour before they all normally get out of bed on Sundays – she goes to open it. Her siblings pile into her room, all already suited up in the uniforms, but without the domino masks that make it so difficult to see their expressions.

“What’s going on?” she asks, eyeing them all. There’s a definite apprehension in the air, which makes the back of her neck prickle.

Number One clears his throat. “Number Seven,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “I know you must be really confused. We all – we’ve been planning something this whole week, and we, uh, we want to apologize.”

“Later,” Number Five says, irritated. His eyes soften when they meet hers, though, and he turns to Number Three. “Allison, get on with it.”

“Listen, Va –Number Seven,” Number Three says, her dark hair catching the lamplight. She looks worried about something, and Number Seven instinctively takes her hand to comfort her. Number Three looks down at their joined palms and a brief smile crosses her face. “We’re going to do something, okay; I need you to trust us.”

Number Six sits next to her on the bed. He links his arm with hers. “Don’t panic, Number Seven,” he says, and something about his reassuring tone puts her at ease somewhat. He has always been good at that.

“It’s going to be okay,” Number Four adds, smiling quickly at her. 

“Anytime now,” Number Two calls from the doorway, but even he looks worried.

“Trust us, okay?” Number Three says, and even as something in Number Seven roars with emotion, even as her throat starts to constrict with instinctive fear, she meets each of her siblings’ gazes, and finds the strength to nod. Number Three interlaces their fingers. Number Seven watches her as she takes a deep breath, her eyes widening as Number Three starts to say familiar words.

_“I heard a rumor–”_

Outside, it begins to rain.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this because I needed catharsis – that fun “um our sister caused the apocalypse in part because we’ve been ignoring/shitting on her for decades and now we have to physically confront how she was when we were kids” factor! Talk to me in the comments about which vanya/other hargreeves sibling dynamic needs more s2 screentime!!!


End file.
